


The Owl and the Tanager

by ClockworkCourier



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Character Death, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multiple Endings, One Shot Collection, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, References to Clue | Cluedo, Secret Marriage, Wedding Rings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2020-10-11 09:48:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20544140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClockworkCourier/pseuds/ClockworkCourier
Summary: He thinks of them like two birds sharing a perch, each with the opposite wing broken—turning to hide it so the other can't see. So the other thinks that they are whole.Or; a collection of Hartving oneshots.





	1. Fear

**Author's Note:**

> [bypasses all of my other, _other_ fics with a tricycle and a clown horn]
> 
> Hi. I wanted to be the change I needed in the world, and that change was this pairing that I've gotten stupidly addicted to. Okay, thanks, love ya.
> 
> Fic title comes from my favorite Sufjan Stevens song. Appropriately big sad.

“I’m not afraid of much,” Tom admits, more to John’s shoulder than his face. He’s nestled there, slotted between John’s body and the wall, occupying the smallest amount of space possible in the berth. 

John smiles and strokes back some of Tom’s hair, fingers gently combing through, setting it to an unruly state. It’s getting long, but John can’t find it in him to complain. “Nothing at all?” he asks.

“No, I’m afraid of… Well, it’s easier to count the things I _am_ afraid of than what I’m not.” He worries his bottom lip in thought. Then, he looks to John, his eyes cast like warm silver in the guttering lantern light. “What are you afraid of?” he asks.

This has been the nature of their relationship since the beginning—the quiet exchange of information, built on the buttresses of trust. If John means to get a word from Tom, then he must offer his own first. At first, it was a means of extending the proverbial olive branch. Now, it’s simply how they are. 

“I feel that it’s exploitable,” John replies, perhaps a bit wry.

“I’m not enterprising on your fears, sir,” Tom says with a smile, nuzzling up under John’s chin like an affectionate cat. “Unless they’re the sort of things worth enterprising upon.”

They may be. John fears a damned eternity—_has_ feared it, since he was old enough to sit in a pew and hear it spoken into the chilled air of a church. He fears the possibility of a great yawning emptiness, not unlike the darkened Arctic. 

“To be eternally lonely,” John says, at last. His left arm moves to shift Tom closer to him, if it were possible. Tom reciprocates by laying his right arm over John’s ribs, fingers running along the seam of his undershirt. “I spent time in the Australian bush, and were it not for my younger brother, I would have gone completely mad with the isolation.”

Tom hums against his shoulder before pressing a light kiss to it. “Are you afraid of it here?” he asks.

“Perhaps. Sometimes.” John’s fingers stroke the fine hairs at the base of Tom’s neck. “I dream of it oftener than I’d prefer.”

“Oh?”

“That you leave, or you—” He stops himself, frowning. 

“That I die,” Tom supplies.

John nods, although he cannot find himself grateful for the addition.

“Do you fear the same of the captains? Or the other officers?”

“Somewhat,” John concedes. “To be left completely alone is a terrible ordeal that I can’t help but dwell on. To lose one’s friends is a tragedy. To lose one’s… Well, _beloved—” _The word still sits strangely in his mouth, but he smiles around it. “I would be bereft.”

Tom smiles and moves his kisses to John’s jaw. “I’m not afraid to die,” he tells John—whispers it against his skin like a secret. “I’m not afraid of the dead, or the dying. But…”

He goes quiet before shifting around so that he’s over John, nearly nose-to-nose with him, one hand resting above each of John’s shoulders. He kisses him, hardly chaste, low and lingering with a simmering heat that follows. 

John lifts a hand to press against Tom’s right cheek, thumb just under his eye, tracing a trail of light freckles. He’s memorised each one’s placement, so much so that he could map them with the exactitude of an ancient astronomer. He smiles when Tom turns his head enough to kiss the palm of his hand.

“What frightens you, Thomas?” he asks, breathless, watching the lantern light make strung gold of Tom’s hair.

Tom kisses him again, hard enough to bruise. It hurts, and John very nearly hisses at the sensation, but it’s lost when Tom moves one knee in between his own, causing him to go silent as his blood rushes to everywhere but his head. 

He feels the answer, more than hears it.

_I’m afraid to lose you._

_I’m afraid that you will go into the dark, into a place I cannot reach._

_I’m afraid that after all of this, all we have seen and done, all we have lost, you will be the one that ruins me. _

They kiss there, in the shadow-filled berth, the ship creaking mournfully around them. Their fears are a carefully-kept secret, exchanged and locked away.


	2. Carnivale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [holds up bullhorn] _NERRRDDDSSSSS_
> 
> also i hold fast to the theory that the more intoxicated irving gets, the more scottish he becomes.

It’s the rum. It _has_ to be the rum, honey-sweet and working in devious concert with the golden firelight to play terrible tricks on John. Otherwise, there is no worldly, godly explanation as to why Thomas Hartnell looks as lovely as he does. Oh God, _lovely. _It’s not the sort of word you use to describe a man, let alone one wearing a ridiculous papier-mâché lion’s head on top of his own, a corded knot mane trailing behind him like the thread trail of Ariadne.

Certainly the rum. John takes another swig just to be sure of his theory.

It’s not a solid theory, of course. He cannot blame a rum ration and lantern light for every time that he’s caught sight of red-gold hair over an upturned collar. Lord knows he can’t blame it for how easily he can envision Tom’s eyes, warm blue like a summer sky. Horrid, it is, how quickly he’s fallen into temptation for a constellation of freckles and the lilt of a Chatham accent. 

Then, someone strikes up a fantastic Irish aire on a fiddle, and John feels that his handmade angel wings are a bit askew.

He takes another fortifying drink that earns him twin cheers from a pair of ABs dressed as French maids. Then, he reaches up and adjusts his halo, and trusts that the rum is going to make a complete fool out of him with such intensity that he’ll never wish to leave his berth again. It would serve him right. 

Tom stands near one painted-canvas wall with Peglar, the two of them talking under a looming figure of a statue of Aphrodite, her hands covering her with only the barest suggestion of chastity. John resolutely ignores the possible connotation and clears his throat as he approaches the pair, watching Peglar grin like a fool as Tom splutters and nearly drops his tin of rum.

“Lieutenant Irving!” Tom says, eyes wide and a blush already fixed upon his face, drawing out his freckles so that John can make out each one individually. The man tries to salute, but only succeeds in smacking the lion’s head off his own, sending it tumbling to the snow while Peglar about doubles over in laughter.

“At— Uh, at ease, Hartnell,” John says, clearing his throat again, before nodding at Peglar. “_Meester_ Peglar.”

“Lieutenant,” Peglar chirps before patting Tom on the back. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“_Henry_,” Tom hisses through his teeth as Peglar hums to himself and sashays back through the dancing masses, twirling about with an invisible partner until he disappears into the throng. It leaves the two of them, lion and angel, drunk and slightly drunker. Tom is biting down on his bottom lip, eyes anxiously flicking back and forth between John and the now-dented costume. “Um, pleasant night, isn’t it?” he says.

“Is _wonderful_,” John declares. “Hav’ you ever been t’a masque, Hartnell?”

Tom blinks at him before opening and closing his mouth on several false starts. “Oh, no. I’m not… I never had the opportunity.” 

Right. He’s an AB and from the little nook of towns around Chatham Dockyard. Unless his family somehow made a fortune in tar or oysters, he wouldn’t have had the sort of finances that would allow him to go. John should be mortified at his suggestion, but instead, he grins like the fool he is and rocks up and down on his toes. “S’very nice. All sorts’o people there t’dance with. I never wanted tae, b’cause—” He pauses, furrowing his brows as he tries to think of why he didn’t dance before. Not for lack of skill, as he had lessons like all of his siblings. Then, he settles on, “Not the right partner.”

“I’m awfully sorry, Lieutenant,” Tom says, and it pleases John as to how honest he sounds. He fidgets with the bottom hem of his coat, fingertips pink with the cold; John has a terrible time looking at anything else.

“You wan’tae dance w’me?” he says before he can stop himself. 

Tom looks outright like an owl, his perfect, _perfect_ blue eyes wide in surprise. “D-do I, _what?”_

“_Daaaahnce_,” John drawls out, at best attempting to mimic Captain Fitzjames.

“With— With _me?”_

“Mhmm.” John knows that Tom is looking at him with pure disbelief, so before he can ask after the choice, he closes up the distance between them by a few more feet until Tom’s back is to Aphrodite. John’s right boot is doing something interesting to the lion’s snout, making it look like it’s about to sneeze. 

He’s suddenly aware of everything about Tom—he smells like firewood and rum, his bottom lip is red from where he’s been biting it, and there is a wonderful rendition of the constellation of Corona Borealis on the left side of his nose. His hair is tousled, and John feels some rum-soaked, traitorous part of himself that wants to run his hands through it.

“Thomas,” he says, forgoing titles and surnames and going straight for the Christian. Thomas—doubting Thomas, Thomas the twin, the one who would go to death for the man he cared most about. As John’s mind swirls like shore water around the dock posts of what he knows, he feels gloriously untethered, more free than he’s been in years. “I’m about tae say somethin’ very foolish. I’ll not say it twice, an’ I willn' say it tomorrow. Y’understand?”

Tom nods, breathing heavily. John watches one sweat drop snake down his jaw to his collar. The temptation to chase it becomes stifling.

“I wanna…” He licks his lips, not ignorant of how Tom watches him. Then, he makes order of the words following the wild currents in his brain. “I very much wan’tae be around you. _Near_ you. I won’t get that chance for a _long_ time, an’ so if it means… If it means dancin’, then a'right.”

There’s a silence between them, backed by that excitable fiddler and the raucous laughter and conversation of the crews. For the two of them, however, there’s a silence hanging by a gossamer thread, and John feels as though his heart is suspended on it as well. 

He’s a terrible man. He’s been having awful thoughts for months now, all centered around Thomas, making carnal, sinful images in his own head when the poor man—

“Alright,” Tom says.

John stares at him. The word moves through his head like treacle. “Wh’,” is all he can manage.

Tom smiles. Corona Borealis rises on his face. “I’ll dance with you, although you might want to sober up a bit before you go out there on your feet.”

And like the coming of tomorrow’s dawn, John smiles back, his heart dancing to the aire already.


	3. Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a little dorky vignette based on the wedding communion in gentleman jack. :D for anon who requested 'happy endings'.

It’s a slight of hand—the sort of trick that a man on the street would perform for a few coins. Now you see it, now you don’t. Here’s a little silver ring in one hand, and! One, two, _three— _Where is it now?

If the gentleman on the right side of the pew will open his hand, he might find—indeed!—the little silver ring has somehow made the most miraculous journey into his palm. Oh, he’s pleased with this trick, grinning to himself as he toys with the article like a child playing with a top. He spins it about between his fingers, admiring the coloured shine of stain-glass on its surface. Then, another trick. It dances along his fingers like a coin across the knuckles until it’s on his ring finger.

But, oh! Ladies and gentlemen of the Church of Scotland! The trick is not at its end here in these hallowed halls. Saints and angels gaze from every corner of the church, but their stony eyes haven’t caught the second half of this exchange. For, yes, if the gentleman on the left side of the pew is to check his coat pocket, he will find a little _golden_ ring. Lovely, isn’t it? It shines like the sun through the glass currently setting David’s harp alight. 

This ring does not dance, but it _does_ do something quite magical. Yes, little curious eyes in the pew behind them. Haven’t you seen something like this done before? A circus act, the joining of two separate rings until they form an unbreakable link like an iron chain. No man could pull them apart without breaking it! Yes, the gentleman on the left slides the golden ring onto _his_ finger, and thereby forges this exact same link. Pull all you’d like, but they won’t come apart.

What a set of magical occurrences! These two gentlemen share a little smile at a trick gone spectacularly well. As good magicians do, they join hands at the termination of the trick and bow. Yes, it is bowing in _prayer_, but a it’s a bow nonetheless. 


	4. Ever After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the CLUE!meme, a.k.a.: 
> 
> "It could have gone like this:
> 
> It should have gone like this:
> 
> But it actually happened like this:"
> 
> This is kind of silly at times, but I had fun! :DDDD

It was ever after.  
  
Happily, or otherwise, there was always going to be an ever after. For years beyond their small window of time, their tiny frigid sliver of existence that seemed to be the measure of all of humanity’s chronology, the world would go on. The tides would rise and fall, ebb and flow with the detritus of old dreams brushing like sighs against the shore. Their names would be in print, and then out again.   
  
Everyone would remember them.   
  
No one would remember them at all.  
  
That’s the nature of ever after.  
  
\- - -  
  
John Irving is stabbed to death on the grey shale of King William Island, with the man called Cornelius Hickey stifling his last laboured breaths with a cold, calloused hand. Every shudder of John’s pulse soaks his slops with blood, chokes the life from him as he thinks, _No, no, no, not like this._  
  
Not under Hickey. Not looking up at this man haloed by dead sunlight like some heathen god. Not alone otherwise, save for the corpse of Farr lying prone from the same blasphemous act.   
  
_God, please,_ John thinks. _Let me see him one more time._  
  
God does not allow this. John Irving dies there, is mangled and maimed, turned into some awful spectacle for Harry Goodsir to cut apart like a college specimen. There’s a hasty, half-hearted attempt to piece him back together before he is wrapped in layers of wool and canvas.   
  
Edward Little weeps silently for hours. He thinks that this is the end of all goodness, that there is nothing left in the Arctic that could save them if a man as devoted to heaven as John Irving can die in such a godless way. Edward’s never considered himself a particularly religious man, but he prays for John; however, his prayers may not mean much to a deity that must be willingly deaf to their suffering. But he does pray, and he prays through his sobs as they strangle him in a noose’s grip of despair. Then, when night comes and the camp is quiet, he prays that Hickey dies slowly and painfully. If such a prayer condemns Edward’s soul, then it’s a fair exchange.  
  
George Hodgson does not speak. He weeps as well, but he keeps his mourning away from Edward and the rest of command. He thinks of home, of God, of seeing heaven for a moment in a place that was not meant to witness its glory. He wonders if John Irving would have found George’s own soul lacking for finding glory in popish rituals. Then, he wonders when John felt that crescendo of heavenly love, when the gilding on his soul saw its finest shine rendered by the powerful hands of the Almighty. Here, however, they are all tarnished. George feels the most tarnished of all.  
  
Thomas Hartnell leaves camp after dark. He tells Jopson he’s going to watch for the Creature on a ridge, slings a rifle over his shoulder, and walks west towards John’s grave. There, he sits under a canopy of constellations and ribbons of aurora, watching the whole sky dance as if in celebration—for the reception of a soul, perhaps. The sky danced the night Tom’s brother died, the broken glass sound of the lights tinkling like bells. Tom wonders if it will do the same when he dies here.  
  
He does not say anything to the body of John Irving. It’s only a body, after all; they’re only ever bodies. He’s moved and buried enough of them to know there’s nothing left in them—no ghosts, no spirits, no geniuses of famine and disease. Under the stones, John’s body goes to ash as every mouldering creature’s will.   
  
He does, however, leave one little trinket to mark the grave. If someone finds it someday, they’ll at least know the man beneath the stones to some degree. Tom’s thumb brushes over the impressions of letters: _Second Mathematical Prize—_  
  
Someone will know this man. He deserved to be known.  
  
Then, Tom walks back to camp, and—  
  
No one will know his bones when they’re found. He’ll be in pieces, scattered across the land by means of animals and wind.   
  
\- - -  
  
John Irving lives.   
  
He returns to Edinburgh with a hero’s welcome. His father pulls him into his arms on the stairs of No. 1 North Charlotte Street, tears rolling down his weathered face and kissing his brow like he’s welcoming the prodigal son. He’s ushered to the parlour, to the dining room, to his room, and then out to Edinburgh like a celebratory parade through every Scottish luminary’s house. He’s lauded, rewarded, offered partnerships and marriages, whisked from one end of the country to the other.   
  
“My boy survived,” his father tells everyone. He shakes every hand as though he’s intending to thank the whole world. “My boy. He’s alive.”  
  
John ends up living with his brother and sister-in-law in Falkirk, writing letters out of the little parlour at Arnothill. Letters arrive almost daily, inviting him to parties held in honour of the great and miraculous Franklin Expedition. The Admiralty reminds him that he’s still employed under their banner, due on track to become a captain, should he wish it. He could be knighted, live with his baron cousin as a sort of decoration in his house, give lectures the way most men do, write a book, live out the rest of his days in divine comfort.  
  
He does not.  
  
A letter arrives one November evening, written in the ever steady hand of Francis Crozier. Included in the envelope is a clipping from a newspaper in Maidstone.  
  
_I offer every condolence, _Crozier writes. By the time John reads the clipping, every word from his old captain slips away like snow in the wind.  
  
Consumption takes Thomas Hartnell away from the world, just as it did for his brother and father. The obituary is truly short, simply mentioning his role in the Navy and the cause and date of his death. He’s to be buried at Saint Mary Magdalene’s churchyard in Gillingham.  
  
John leaves the next morning, is seen only once in Gillingham, and never again.  
  
\- - -  
  
John Irving dies at Fort Resolution.   
  
It’s a sad footnote at the end of a long, agonising story; but truly, there is no other way he’d wish to go. He dies quietly, dazedly watching the sun catch plumes of blowing snow, turning them into ever-shifting rainbows. More importantly, he dies in Tom’s arms, his head resting against Tom’s collarbone, listening to his pulse promising a long, wonderful life.  
  
Doctor Arsenault, the fort’s overworked physician, will say that his heart gave out. It laboured intensely but expended its strength. Tom, however, doesn’t know John’s dead until he kisses his temple and feels no flutter of life beneath his lips.  
  
They bury John two days later, and Tom buries some part of himself with him.  
  
Tom Hartnell lives forty-five years more. He has two sons and a daughter, all loved dearly and given every comfort their father can provide. In the longest nights of winter, he tells them stories of his travels to places like New Zealand and China. He tells them about their uncle, promising them that they would have loved him with their entire hearts and would have had that love returned completely. But when they ask him about the Arctic, he says little.  
  
He passes away in his sleep, a smile on his face.   
  
His eldest son, John, finds an unsent letter six years later. It’s tucked away in an old Bible, folded neatly into a notch somewhere in the Song of Songs. After reading it, he tells no one of its contents.  
  
\- - -  
  
John Irving lives and becomes a captain.  
  
His last years of lieutenancy are spent aboard a vessel in the West Indies, and his first commandership earns him a place aboard the _Typhon_ under a grizzled but kindly captain. After three years in the Mediterranean, John returns home and is finally given a captaincy on the _Proserpine_, a beautiful sloop intended for service along the eastern North American coast, with her first docking in Halifax.   
  
Captain Irving is well-respected among his men, and when they’re certain he’s not listening, the pass along rumours of the ill-fated Arctic expedition. Their captain, it’s said, walked thousands of miles on bleeding feet just to bring his men to safety, alongside those lauded names of Fitzjames and Crozier. His faithfulness in religion is owed to the Miracle in the Arctic, as it’s since been called. When he leads Sunday service, they listen intently; even if they are not, individually, religious men.   
  
In Halifax, there’s a joyous reunion between Captain Little of the _Intrepid_ and Captain Irving. They enthusiastically grasp hands in the middle of their exclamations, laughing in sheer delight before promising that they _must_ meet later on. As for the men of the _Proserpine_, all they need to see is the extensive scarring on Captain Little’s face to know that he’s a fellow Arctic survivor. One AB of the _Proserpine_ later says that he spoke to a mate from the _Intrepid_ and found out that Captain Little, in a fit of madness, clawed his own face to a bloody pulp before being recovered. This inspires a new hushed awe among the _Proserpine_’s crew.  
  
Five weeks later, the _Iris_ docks in Halifax. She’s a new clipper, visibly fitted for cold weather service. There’s little to say in her regard aside from her age, but word of her crew moves in quickstep. Before the men of the _Proserpine_ know it, their captain quickly acquaints himself with the captain of the _Iris_, and then to her ice master.  
  
No one has attempted the Northwest Passage since the _Erebus_ and _Terror_, after the court martial and subsequent headlines claiming that there was no such thing. “Death and madness lie north,” is the oft-repeated phrase, often attributed to Crozier. The _Iris, _it turns out, is simply being sent to better chart the waters immediately west of Greenland. According to the men of the _Intrepid_, Captain Little believes the _Iris_’ true mission is to patrol the mouth of the Passage in order to discourage would-be adventurers from attempting to claim it, and in the course of such, join those many dead explorers before them.  
  
If the rumour about the ice master’s brother is true, then no one finds reason to doubt the _Iris_’ intentions.   
  
As for Captain Irving, he spends the rest of the _Proserpine_’s shore leave with the ice master, walking about Halifax and sampling oysters and champagne. Some nights, the captain doesn’t return to ship. However, no one spreads any rumours about his intent in that regard, as he’s a respected man with a loyal crew.   
  
After that, _Iris_ begins her long trek north and _Proserpine_ goes south.   
  
Four and a half years later, no one seems to mind when the ice master and Captain Irving take lodgings in London with Captain Little. It’s only natural, after the state of their camaraderie.   
  
\- - -  
  
John Irving dies, and it’s a blessing.  
  
He dies alongside Edward, both of them dully looking out at the grey landscape around them through the weakly-flapping canvas of their collapsed tent. Edward’s face is riddled with gold chains—oh, it made sense at the time—and John’s unsure of which of his bones are broken and which simply feel that way. When they speak, their words no longer make sense so much that they’re a jumble of sounds charading as speech.   
  
Sometimes, John remembers what was. He knows he was a lieutenant, back when rank was something to take pride or shame in. And he knows he loved people once.  
  
Malcolm. He knew a man by that name and loved him dearly. He cannot remember his first name, nor what he was like.   
  
His mother. Yes, he loved her as well. She was incredibly beautiful, even if her face is beyond recollection.   
  
His— Oh, perhaps a brother. Which brother, he’s unsure. He seems to have so many.   
  
And—  
  
And another man. Yes, he loved another man.   
  
John quietly struggles to remember _which_ man, as he’s known his share. Not Edward, no. Not a lieutenant, or even an officer. He remembers— _Ah,_ he remembers when the man died. He was very lovely when he died, and John _thinks_ he was lovely when he was alive as well. His hair was the colour of warm toffee, and he laughed like—  
  
Well, he laughed. John’s sure he did.  
  
At one point, John asks, “What was his name?” and Edward replies with a few nonsense syllables.   
  
The man must have mattered for John to love him so deeply. He _must_ have.   
  
John finally dies two days before Edward. Crozier finds them together, Irving folded and stiff as Edward leans over him. When both of them are gone, Crozier says their names into the darkness, letting them float upward to be embroidered into the aurora.  
  
“Edward Little,” he whispers in his fever. Then, “John Irving. Thomas Hartnell.”  
  
\- - -  
  
John Irving lives, and this is the happily ever after.  
  
The _how_ and _why_ aren’t important. If anything, John Irving lives in the delight of his unimportance. All his years of trying to find his place in the world and he finds it in a soft little perch in Perthshire, where his heart is happiest. He takes lodgings at Earnside House, a so-called _rustic_ retreat that is only rustic in the sense that a gentleman of the gentry would consider so. What matters more is that it’s in Crieff where John spent many hours of childhood.   
  
He lives at Earnside alongside Tom and a servant girl named Mattie McCullough, the daughter of a local farmer who learns her trade from an old book found in Earnside’s library. Together, they form an off-balance but incredibly happy little family.   
  
John keeps up a sentry in the library, happily wiling his hours away between books and letters. He keeps excellent correspondence with many trusted friends and beloved family. Archibald’s poems are frequent sources of delight, and Mattie and Tom are often amused by David’s stories of Australia (often followed by John’s laments of how much he detests the place). Tom finds his happiness in the garden, cultivating all manner of flowers, vegetables, and fruits. Earnside’s table is spoken of with perfect fondness among its guests, and most credit is due to Tom’s newfound green thumb. He often invites the Hartnells of Gillingham, until his youngest sister falls so much in love with the place that she remains there, adding a fourth to their party.  
  
John and Tom live many years together, delighting in their companionship. They keep their home warm and inviting, so much so that no one dares make a comment on their bachelorhood. So long as Earnside continues to entertain and its inhabitants want for nothing, then it’s no one’s business what goes on when the doors are closed.  
  
Earnside is not the happiest place, but it comes close. More importantly, it’s home to some of the happiest ever-afters that can be found.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://radiojamming.tumblr.com)


End file.
